Poor Lighting
by Cravat of Doom
Summary: He was back, but why coudn't John see that? Why couldn't he get a single word out of the doctor when Sherlock was obviously saying so much?


_There are some things you have to read twice._

He sat in front of John with his arms clasped against the back of his head, unsure for the first time in recent memory of what to say.

It was perfectly fair of the doctor to decide what he did, and it shouldn't have made a difference to Sherlock. But things change, and today it mattered very much.

"I had planned on coming back, John. I was going to explain everything to you at some point," he eventually said, albeit rather foolishly. It was too late to try and say anything; he wasn't going to get much of a response. John had every right not to say anything back.

Sherlock was in a difficult position, in every sense of the word. He awkwardly sat cross-legged against the wall and stumbled to say something that made sense. He kept telling himself that this was stupid.

But John had done the same for him, and now even he understood that he needed to repay the favour. If only he would just get a reply. He leaned forward.

"I couldn't have told you beforehand, because you wouldn't have been very convincing. You're easier to read than a book, and it would have ruined the whole thing."

Silence.

He also understood that he was gone for a long time. He understood that John must have been very confused and upset. He even sort of understood why the man left Baker Street. But he couldn't really comprehend why it took him so damn long to do _anything_. Why, for months and months did John just sit in his chair and do nothing? That wasn't him.

Sherlock would have said that he may have been depressed. One day, though, John just hopped up and tried to live again. He moved out, got another apartment, and began to date various women. Sometimes at the same time, Sherlock noticed. Perhaps John never did.

"You didn't seem to notice much anymore. Unfortunate for you, really," Sherlock said more to himself than to John. The latter could certainly be stubborn even when he wasn't trying, and right now Sherlock couldn't look him in the eye. The man who could read everybody couldn't read the doctor's emotions. He could do nothing but stare at everything that was not John Watson.

No, that wasn't fair. He needed to look at him because at this point it was doubtful he would ever get the chance again. But he couldn't, and that was almost the worst part of this whole thing.

The lighting in the room made his eyes hurt. It was just dim enough for everything to seem a bit darker than it was if he kept his head still, but when he moved it light seemed to come flooding out of nowhere. Everything was a light orange colour as if candles had been scattered about the room. But there was no fire.

_John'd say there was no fire either, but just look where we are now._

They were alone. People would talk if they weren't, and John probably wouldn't appreciate it.

_Oh, look at that poor man, sitting down there like that and not even being acknowledged. I bet he's pouring his heart out, sweet thing._

Sherlock didn't blink. He kept his eyes open and the scene changed until what he was seeing didn't seem real in the strange lighting. Everything in his peripheral vision disappeared if he stared at something long enough. He was just stalling though, because he was uncomfortable.

Standing, he walked over to the lamps and turned each of them on. If he could just see clearly, it would be easier.

"John, I, er... That time you visited the graveyard...It was sentimental and exaggerated, not to mention it sounding sycophantic..." he took a deep breath.

"But despite all of that," he continued as he crushed a small hard candy he found on the floor under his foot, "I appreciated the effort. And I'm...sorry. At one point I would have asked you to forgive me, but..."

The last light wouldn't turn on. The bulb was screwed in properly, but it wouldn't light up even when the switch was pressed. Sherlock pressed it again, and again, but it wasn't lighting up and _fucking hell this damned thing doesn't work, the stupid morons can't even work the lighting in this godforsaken place_, and now the lamp was across the room in dozens of pieces but he didn't care.

"Why would you join the military again?" he demanded, almost exasperatedly. "Why couldn't you just stay in London?"

He couldn't get one word out of him.

"There was enough money for you to stay in our flat, you knew people around the city, and you had a life there. So what wasn't good enough?" He knew he wasn't making sense anymore. He knew he was contradicting himself now but he was so _angry_ at John.

"I was alone, John. I'm alone now."

Footsteps were coming down the hall to tell him that he had to leave. John would of course be allowed to remain but he had to leave and never come back. He knew he would always be the one to walk away in the end. It had always been that way with everyone in his life.

He would leave and he would get over it, but for now things still seemed dark. And that last lamp would always be broken for him. That fleeting part of him that said he could be loved in whatever way would slip away from his grasp and he would go back into solitude.

But the slow steps faded into another room and a few more minutes were granted. He had to finish this up or he may never get another chance to speak to John.

"What I was trying to say..." he began, finally managing to look at the doctor.

To look at the eyes that would never again open. To look at the pale face that didn't belong to the man he knew. To the grey clothes Sherlock had never seen before that didn't look like something he'd buy.

To the shell of John Watson lying in the coffin who wasn't John Watson at all.

"What I was trying—" he attempted, but he couldn't do it.

He brushed the tears away from his eyes with his sleeve like a child and slid back down to the floor. He was crying now in a way he hadn't done in years; horrible racking sobs that made it hard to breathe. The lights of the funeral home were now much too bright and all he wanted was darkness to take away the things he didn't want to see. He didn't want to see the holes where the bullets embodied themselves in John's skull. He didn't want to see John at all, but now that sight was in his mind-

-_and you cannot kill an idea once it has made its home there._

He sat with his head against his knees on the floor by the wall until the director came in to gently notify him it was time to leave. He sat like that until minutes later when they had to bring Mycroft in to help get him stood up. He sat like that until his brother, cold and distant as he would always be, walked out and told the staff that the man would get up when he got up.

He sat like that until his back hurt and his nose was running and he eventually needed to get to his feet.

To look at John again was inevitable, but to walk over and place a hand on his chest as if _just to check_ wasn't, even surprised himself. He wasn't warm. He never would be.

A tear landed on John's jacket and Sherlock knew that it was time to go.

"What I was trying to say was that I have the miracle you asked for," he whispered hoarsely. The room remained quiet even through his pain.

"But it looks like you won't be needing it this time around."


End file.
